On the Line
by Kiera Kingsley
Summary: [Phone Booth] A short vignette set three weeks prior to the events of the movie.
1. Chapter 1

Author's notes to all: I swore to myself that I would never, ever, ever, ever write a Mary-Sue fic... and now I have broken that promise. I accept all and any flames. I wrote it with someone special in mind (not me), so I hope that exonerates me a little bit.  
  
Author's notes to one in particular: Because you wrote in your review for Lea's "A Perfect Violation":  
  
'I would really think that a romance would be kinky and cool but lets face it you cant really have a romance with this sorta guy but wouldnt it be just so freakin cool?!',  
  
Zeech, you are Kate and this one's for you. ;-)  
  
---  
  
A person shouting into his cell phone, full of self-importance, isn't going to notice me.  
  
But this bright-faced, slender young thing standing there in the snow, chafing her hands, already has.  
  
I only noticed her a few weeks ago; she only made a few phone calls from the booth before I rang her up. But from those two or three calls I learned a lot.  
  
When she spoke on the receiver, she seemed to immerse herself completely in conversation, listening, questioning, sympathizing. People seemed to flock to her constantly with their problems--dozens of boring, mundane, wearisome troubles--and she never tired of it. She had the clearest intuition and strongest sensitivity I ever saw in a person.  
  
I phoned her. I played with her a bit, toyed with her mind, considered picking up the rifle. But she couldn't be twisted; her thoughts couldn't be touched. She slipped from my grasp every time I tried to catch her.  
  
Soon there wasn't any question of using the rifle. I couldn't even bring myself to look at it.  
  
"Why do you keep phoning me?"  
  
"Because you, Kate, are a refreshing change of pace. People come in and out of this phone booth every day--arrogant, conceited, lying, cold, cruel people who live to destroy other people. You, however, are like nobody I have ever come across."  
  
I find myself constantly confessing everything to her, revealing the vulnerable part of myself. She was very quiet when I told her about the killings, and she didn't answer for a minute or two when I admitted I'd thought about shooting her. But she never hung up--never, not once, took the opportunity to hurt me.  
  
"You're probably bored out of your mind, listening to me talk like this."  
  
"Never. I could listen to you all day."  
  
I was taken aback. "What?"  
  
Laughter, and a bit of bashful colour staining her cheek. "It's your voice, it's... it's like silk. It sends shivers down my spine."  
  
She lives at a shelter for homeless people. She helps out the staff there, making the beds and cooking the meals. Her cheeks are hollow--the fine lines of her cheekbones and the curve of her jaw makes my hands tremble-- and there are dark smudges under her eyes. But her smile is bright underneath the glass windows of the booth, and her laugh sparkles across the line.  
  
During the days she goes outside onto the sidewalks and streets, carrying her battered old backpack. She finds a smooth expanse of concrete and settles herself down, rummaging through the bag and fishing out a box of chalk. Balancing an empty old baseball cap beside her canvas, she goes to work.  
  
A fuzzy outline with feathery strokes, then smooth, thick sweeps to fill in the shapes. Her hands are deft and quick, her fingers and palms dusty with powdery soot as she rubs them together. A picture appears: a bird amid the clouds, a tree at sunrise, a couple sitting at a table. People stop and stare; some nod and murmur approvingly, and toss loose change into the baseball cap.  
  
She stops, and blows on her hands to warm them. Crouching above the sidewalk, her hands clasped around her knees, she studies her artwork intently with her head tilted to one side.  
  
Then she rustles through the change in the baseball cap, pockets it, and packs up her materials. She swings the backpack over her shoulder and trudges away, flexing her stiff fingers and stretching out her long legs.  
  
I stood outside the booth two weeks after we first talked. My heart was stuttering rapidly, sending bursts of nervous energy through my hands and head. What if she didn't show, what if she didn't recognize me, what if she was turned off by my appearance, what if...  
  
"I'm sorry, sir, but I need to use the phone."  
  
And there she was, leaning on one foot, smiling ruefully with one corner of her mouth quirked up. My throat went dry and I gurgled out something garbled before quickly clearing it with a cough. "He's--the person you're trying to phone, he's not at home. He can't take your call."  
  
She stares at me blankly, then her face lights up with a glow of delight and waiting out here for her for an hour, shivering in the cold, is suddenly worth every last minute. From then on I stay outside beside the booth every day, and sometimes we even go for a short walk together.  
  
---  
  
To be continued...  
  
Reviews are wonderful things! :) 


	2. Chapter 2

Two weeks slip by. Kate is now so much a part of my life that I couldn't imagine it without her. The arrival of a new visitor to the booth--tall guy, blond hair, expensive Italian suits--only vaguely interests me.  
  
But one day we're coming back from a walk around the neighborhood. Kate stopped to chat with the homeless people sitting on the street; every single one, blinking blearily and scrubbing at their eyes with raw fists, lifted up a weary, weathered face that broke into a wide smile. They all clung to her with their bony fingers, babbling and prattling like little kids.  
  
One thin, nervous man stuttered out, "Is th-this your b-b-boyfriend?" And Kate laughed, "Yes," and slipped an arm around my waist, and kept it there for the entire walk home, and I couldn't have told you what my name was or where I lived if my life had depended on it.  
  
We're walking up to the booth, and the guy steps out. He's handsome in a sort of flashy way, all glitter and sparkle. He sees Kate, with her hair streaming from her face and her eyes bright with laughter, and he lets out a long wolf whistle.  
  
All I can hear is the blood pounding hotly in my ears, and all I can see is red. I could pull the rifle out right now and shoot him between the eyes, and I'd die a happy man. Kate just rolls her eyes and drags me past the booth.  
  
It happens again. Two days later, we arrive just as he slides the door closed behind him and brushes himself off. He looks her up and down approvingly, his eyes lustful, and she shoots him a dirty glance. Only her hand on my arm prevents me from grabbing him by his silk collar and hurling him through one of the windows above.  
  
The next day, he steps up to us, his hands stuffed in his pockets. His hair is greased back and his forehead is shiny; he smiles--a smug, self- satisfied, conceited leer. "Hey, baby," he smirks. "Name's Steve, what's yours?"  
  
Kate looks at him, her eyebrows raised. Then she turns to me, gently slides my glasses off--what is she doing?--puts her arms around my neck, and--  
  
And I think the guy is swearing spitefully at both of us, spitting and cursing, but I really couldn't care less, because Kate is kissing me and nothing else exists, at all, for the next few minutes.  
  
He's stomped off by the time she draws back, breathless and flushed. She sees my dazed face and suddenly seems uncertain, her smile faltering. "Sorry," she murmurs, chewing on her lip. "I didn't think--if you don't want to--"  
  
Don't want to? With a soft growl I shove her up against the side of the booth and kiss her hard, tangling my hands in her hair. She lets out a stifled whimper, and I realize I'm hurting her. "Sorry, sorry," I stammer frantically, quickly releasing her, "sorry--"  
  
"I'm all right," she gasps, catching her breath, "it's okay, I'm all right," and then melts back into my arms. This time we go slowly, and I hold her with infinite care as she tilts her head to meet mine.  
  
It's nearly dark by the time I stumble back into the apartment and fling the rifle aside, rustling out of my coat and kicking off my shoes. I stride over to the window, sending the shade flying with a flick of the wrist, and I catch a glimpse of her as she turns the corner and vanishes.  
  
--- 


	3. Chapter 3

A short note: I originally thought that Phone Booth took place in the late spring to early summer; after watching the DVD (yay! *rejoices*), I found out that it was actually filmed close to wintertime. So I've adjusted the timeframe for it to start approximately three weeks before the movie (right now, it's about a week before Stu appears on the scene), and I've changed the rating because it's about to get pretty nasty.   
  
A big hug and kiss for Lea, who's in London and (I hope) having a blast; Lea--I stole the Kiefer from cinesister while she was hiding him under her bed, and I'm willing to share ;-)   
  
***   
  
I'm outside early the next day. The rifle is stashed in a corner of my apartment, and my hands are fumbling around nervously in my pockets. I scuffle my feet, kick around a few loose pebbles, and wipe my glasses clean as I wait for Kate.   
  
The minutes have never seemed so long before. Each one feels like it's a tired, slow, shuffling thing, worn out and weary as it limps by. I flex my fingers nervously, taking short breaths and biting my lip; I push my sleeve up to check my watch and growl in exasperation. I can't believe it's only been fifteen minutes since I got out here.   
  
"Hey." I look around, startled, and see Steve approaching with a dirty glare in his eyes. "Get out of here, I need to use the phone."   
  
If only I had the rifle... my fingers are itching to curve tightly around the trigger, to press the cold barrel to his shiny, sweaty forehead. "Good for you," I reply sarcastically.   
  
"Don't play games with me, pal," he snarls. His voice, which oozed like oily, greasy slime when he addressed Kate, is rough with brute violence now. "It's a free country, I got a right to use the booth. You going to move or what?"   
  
I shift away, but not before staring him straight in the eyes. "My patience with you is wearing thin," I say coldly, clearly, cutting through the air. "Don't make me lose my temper."   
  
"I'm so scared," he sneers mockingly, but there's a sudden wariness in his eyes as he slams the door shut. I turn my back on him and lean against the stone wall, scanning the street for any sign of Kate.   
  
It's four o'clock. She's usually a few minutes early, give or take. She should be here by now.   
  
Where is she?   
  
***   
  
She didn't show up.   
  
I waited for an hour outside before storming off, cursing under my breath. I could see Steve smirking smugly at me as I charged across the street, barging past people and hurtling into the apartment building. I didn't stop until I flung myself down on the couch and tossed my glasses across the room. They collided with the kitchen table and fell to the floor with a loud rattle and clink.   
  
I lay back against the cushions, blowing out a long sigh. Maybe she was sick, or was held up, or... or maybe she wanted to call it all off because I frightened her, or...   
  
No. Kate wouldn't do that. If she wanted to leave, she'd tell me so face to face. It's a strange thing for me, to trust someone this completely, and it makes me nervous and deeply calm at the same time.   
  
So why didn't she come?   
  
I spent a sleepless night staring at the wall and stumbled around with stinging, bleary eyes the next morning. I spent most of the day pacing nervously, occasionally taking my rifle out and inspecting it.   
  
Now I'm hovering around outside again, even more edgy and tense than before. Steve arrives like clockwork, swaggering by with a cocky leer as he slides into the booth. I'm sorely tempted to just smash the glass in and slam him against the metal frame, but I hold myself back.   
  
Four o'clock slips past, and Kate is not here.   
  
Steve hangs up the receiver with a loud click and steps out, swinging the door shut. "Where's your pretty girlfriend?" he simpers at me.   
  
"None of your business."   
  
"You know, I bet she's really easy--homeless girls always are, half of them are hookers anyway--"   
  
He breaks off with a choked gurgle. I've got him pinned up against the wall with one hand clutching his throat. He gags, clawing frantically at my arm, but I tighten my grip until he gasps and wheezes. Leaning in, I say ever so softly, "Don't push me any further. I'm not the kind of person you want to get angry."   
  
He shrinks away from my glare, his eyes wide, his lips trembling, and lets out a feeble moan as I release him. He slinks away rubbing his bruised throat with a shaking hand, but stops at the corner and wheels around, grunting out: "You're going to regret this, you bastard. I'm going to make you pay. She's not going to be around for much longer."   
  
He stumbles off. I stare blankly after him for two moments before it clicks, and then I'm swearing viciously and dashing after him. But by the time I skid to a halt at the corner, he's gone.   
  
***   
  



	4. Chapter 4

Author's notes:  
  
Lea: Welcome back! We really missed you... *rejoices* ^_^ You can have the Kiefer now--I think he's recovered enough from me ;-) I don't know what Zeech looks like, but I keep picturing Natalie Portman whenever I write--a girl with dark hair, dark eyes, and a bright smile.  
  
Jet: Thank you muchly!  
  
Vera: Where have you been?!?!?!? I missed you too! :-D  
  
Zeech: *grumble, poke poke* Where are you? *grumble*  
  
---  
  
Steve creeps around the corner, his eyes darting furtively as he wipes a sheen of sweat off his forehead. He breathes a sigh of relief as he sees nobody standing there, and chortles smugly to himself.  
  
Don't get too excited, Steve. I'm still here--just not where you can see me.  
  
He slips the quarter into the slot and punches in the number, preening and smoothing back his gleaming blond hair as he waits. "Hi, Laura, sweetheart!" he smiles, his voice dripping with sugary-sweet syrup. "What's up, baby?"  
  
"The name's Simone!" a woman's voice, with a heavy accent, snaps sharply back at him. "I can't believe it... I thought he was kidding... how many others are there? Four? Maybe five?"  
  
"What?" Steve is baffled, his jaw hanging open. "I--I--Simone, I didn't-- it's not--"  
  
"Go to hell, you bastard!" Steve stares in bewilderment at the receiver as it clicks, the dial tone droning in his ears.  
  
Watching from my window, I chuckle very quietly. I've installed a device on the phone that will allow me to reroute the call to any phone line I want-- no matter whose number he dials.  
  
Simone was astonished when I told her about Steve earlier, babbling incoherently, bursting into tears, and then shrieking with rage. It was almost effortless on my part. Michelle stammered and stuttered until Julia shouted angrily at her from the other end; both girls ended up crying, and I ended up with the worst headache I'd had in a long time. Why the hell did every girl of his I phoned feel the need to weep and wail and moan when they found out?  
  
Steve's now answering his cell. That's Julia, I know it is; I told her when he'd be available to talk--just after he called his other 'best girl', Laura. He's pleading, begging, his voice squeaking nervously as he tries to explain himself.  
  
It doesn't work. I can see him fling his cell phone down and hold his head in both hands, groaning and grumbling. Maybe it's time to place another call.  
  
"Hello?"  
  
"Hi, Steve," I purr softly, menacingly. "Having fun yet? I don't think Carrie knows anything yet, why don't you try calling her?"  
  
"Who are you?"  
  
"You don't remember?" My finger slips over the trigger, the barrel of the rifle tapping lightly against the windowsill. "Come on, Steve, think back... I'm sure you can remember..."  
  
Steve spits, his face contorting in rage. "You miserable fuck, you set this up! You planned this!"  
  
"This was just a warning," I growl, my voice rigid with fury. "Believe me, I can do much worse."  
  
Steve seethes through his teeth, clenching his jaw. "You want money, right? You think I'm going to pay you or something?"  
  
"No." I cock the rifle and his breath catches, his face freezing with fear. "You're going to tell me exactly where Kate is and what you did to her, or I will shoot you."  
  
He starts to tremble, shivering violently as tears well up in his eyes. "Don't shoot..." he says meekly, his voice wobbling and weak. What a coward. "Don't shoot, please... we were just having fun... I followed her back to the shelter, I called up some of my friends..."  
  
"What did you do to her?" I roar hoarsely. Something is clutching at my heart, seizing it tightly in a shaking grip.  
  
"My guys grabbed her, put her in the back of our car..." Steve is mumbling miserably, his lower lip quivering. "We drugged her and had some fun. That's all."  
  
And suddenly everything is crystal clear and cold, like an icy winter day. Without feeling any trace of emotion, I flip back the safety switch. "And where is she now?"  
  
"I don't know," Steve sobs. "I don't know. We dumped her somewhere in an alley. I can't remember. I'm sorry, I'm sorry..."  
  
"You will be." I hang up and wait.  
  
Steve stares at the phone in his hand, then slowly replaces it and shuffles out. He takes two steps before slumping over into a crumpled heap on the ground, a thin line of blood dribbling from the crimson hole in his forehead. I hear a bunch of female voices screaming hysterically, see blurry figures running across the street to the booth.  
  
I slide the rifle back into its leather case calmly, the coldness seeping through my skull. Eventually the hookers will hush their noisy sobs and retreat back inside, clinging to each other for support. The shocked people passing by will hurry on home, shaking their heads. Everybody will recover and go on with their normal lives.  
  
Everybody except me.  
  
--- 


	5. Chapter 5

Zeech: Awwww... you poor darling! *sends a big bucket of ice cream and the sexiest Kiefer she can find over to Zeech* ;-)  
  
Lea: You're impossible not to miss :-) We wantssss a LiveJournal, preciousssssss... I love reading yours and Becky's, they are hilarious and wonderful and great!  
  
---  
  
Isn't it funny? You hear a phone ring, and it could be anybody. But a ringing phone has to be answered, doesn't it?  
  
Doesn't it?  
  
The doors to the ambulance slam shut and it veers away, the siren wailing. In this crowd, nobody will notice a tall, slight man as he disappears from sight. I fade into the background and retreat into the cool, darkened lobby of my apartment building.  
  
"Hey... shome guy... he got shot," one of my neighbours, Terry, slurs as he slumps drunkenly against the railing to the stairs. "Y'saw it?"  
  
I shove past him and clump up the stairs, kicking my shoes against each step. At first Stu was amusing, but now... I need to get away somewhere quiet where I can put my head down. I feel bruised inside, as if I swallowed some sort of heavy stone and it jolted and bounced its way around before settling in my stomach.  
  
A gaggle of gabbling officers are flocking through the stairs, comparing notes and hauling out garbage from the hallway two floors above mine. I ignore them and push past the door onto my floor, briefly unable to repress the smallest of smiles.  
  
At my apartment, I dump the rifle and my jacket in the closet before collapsing on the couch. The dim light flickers faintly in the room; one of the shades is loose, and fluttering in the wind. A cold draft scuttles across the floor and shivers along my bare arms.  
  
I get up and wander over to the window. The paint is peeling on the sill as I lean my elbows against the edge, peering down into the dispersing crowd. The old phone booth, its cracked windows shattered and its stone floor spattered with blood, stands empty amid all the chaos. Some phone company's going to tear it down tomorrow--another part of my life, gone. How much more can I stand to lose?  
  
One police officer is scraping up shards of glass from the booth, another is hearing out a couple of witnesses. Someone in a dark coat is photographing the scene. Captain Rhamey is talking to this girl with dark hair--  
  
--and my heart suddenly stops.  
  
I snatch up my jacket and hurry through the hallway, clattering down the stairs. Terry lurches at me as I barge past the lobby doors and emerge onto the street. Captain Rhamey is climbing into the police car, and she's walking slowly towards 8th Avenue.  
  
"Kate," I shout hoarsely, "Kate, stop!"  
  
She turns her head and stares blankly, then suddenly sways and stumbles. She leans heavily against me, burrowing her head into my shoulder, as I steady her on her feet. As I put my arms around her and hold her close, it feels like she's lighter than air, and she'll float upwards and soar away if I let her go.  
  
---  
  
Two more chapters to go, and we're done... It's almost over! *cries* :-( 


	6. Chapter 6

All right, I've got the Caller here with me, and believe me, he is absolutely gorgeous...  
  
*the Caller coughs pointedly*  
  
...oh, yeah, and he also wants me to point out that his character jointly belongs to Kiefer Sutherland, Joel Schumacher, Larry Cohen, and 20th Century Fox Productions, none of whom belong to me, and I'm not making any money from this. There, you happy now?  
  
*the Caller nods and wanders back off into the story*  
  
---  
  
It's near eleven and I know I'm not getting any sleep tonight. Kate is here- -in my apartment--curled up on the couch and bundled in a ragged old wool blanket. I'm lying in bed and staring at the white ceiling.  
  
Without my glasses, everything is blurry. The streetlights outside are hazy splotches of light and the dresser across the room is a fuzzy shape. I roll over and try to bury myself in sleep, muffling my face in the pillows.  
  
Split, swollen lip, bruised cheekbones, torn ear, traces of blood around her mouth and nose. Some of her hair's been torn out at the roots. A low growl builds in my chest and rumbles through my throat, stifled by the sheets.  
  
I close my eyes for a moment, remembering the way her slight hand curled around mine, the warmth of her fingers. When I open them again, it's morning and pale gray light is drifting through the window.  
  
Kate lifts her head as I creep cautiously into the living room. Her hair is tousled and her clothes are crumpled; the faded blanket is still draped around her shoulders. The bruises all over her face and arms have darkened to an ugly purple-black shade, and she's still somewhat pale.  
  
She's also the most beautiful thing I've ever seen in my life.  
  
"Didn't mean to wake you up," I say quietly as I cross the room and stand over her, feeling awkwardly shy. "Are you hungry?"  
  
"No, thanks," she says groggily, sitting up and drawing the blanket closer. "Your apartment is really nice."  
  
My apartment has been called cramped, crowded, dirty, uncomfortable, and a hell-hole--mostly by me--but never has it been called nice. Once again, I find myself taken aback. "What's so nice about it?"  
  
"That blank wall over there." She nods in the direction of the wall, covered with chipped white paint, adjacent to the window. A small smile is stealing across her lips. "I could paint something spectacular on that."  
  
My throat tightens and I sit down beside her, careful not to disturb the blanket or cushions. "If you stayed here, instead of going back to the shelter..." Please, I pray, please say yes.  
  
She looks down at her feet, swallowing hard and rubbing her eyes. "I don't have anywhere else to go. That guy we met, Steve, he--"  
  
"Steve is dead," I cut in. "I made him confess a week ago and then shot him."  
  
Kate closes her eyes and bows her head, letting out a shuddering breath as tears slide down her cheeks. The crying of Steve's girls, the ones that I phoned, mostly annoyed me--some made me want to laugh long and derisively-- but this hurts me more than I could have imagined. I reach out and she burrows into my arms, sobbing quietly, "He's gone?"  
  
"He's dead," I repeat, stroking her hair. "He can't hurt you anymore."  
  
She shakes her head. "He was there, with his buddies..." She spits out the word. "They grabbed my arm and slipped a needle into it, and then they dragged me into their van... I tried to fight them off, but they beat me up and tore my clothes. I couldn't do anything to stop them..." She is trembling with fear and rage, and if I hadn't killed him before, I would have gone out right there and then, found him, and put a bullet through his brain. All I can do now is hold onto her and make soft shushing noises as she cries.  
  
Finally she calms down, scrubbing at her eyes and sniffling. "You're safe," I insist. "You can go anywhere. You can go back to the shelter, if you want- -"  
  
She raises her eyebrows, smiling weakly. "You don't have an extra bed here. Are you going to keep me on the couch if I stay?"  
  
"No, I--" I realize what I was about to say, and crimson floods through my face. "I--I mean, you could keep the bed, and I'd sleep on the couch, and..."  
  
She lets out a low, warm laugh and then looks at me with bright eyes. "I love you. And if you want me here, I'm staying."  
  
--- 


	7. Chapter 7

Thank you for your reviews! :-D  
  
Terrestrial: I swear, I chose Kate because it's a favourite name of mine--I never thought about the Kate on '24'. Weird coincidence, though, eh?  
  
---  
  
I pace into the living room, padding softly in my bare feet. My glasses are on the floor, from where I dropped them last night when we kissed, and I pick up them up with a quiet click and clatter.  
  
It's windy outside, and snowing. The construction workers are gathered in a circle around the empty booth, chafing their frozen hands and blowing on their stiff, numb fingers, hunched over and huddled in on themselves. One of them flips through the pages on a clipboard; another is unravelling an orange extension cord.  
  
Once the truck parks in place by the curb, and the short, balding overseer starts shouting orders, they'll begin tearing down the phone booth. Look, there comes the tech to dismantle the payphone, carrying his black duffel bag of equipment; and here's the overseer, scratching his head and sniffling with a red, runny nose.  
  
I'm watching from the window, and thinking. There's the dent in the frame Leon made with his bat. Those are the remnants of the glass panel I shattered when I shot Stu in the ear. The receiver still has that hairline crack along its plastic surface...  
  
You never know how much you'll miss something until it's gone.  
  
My head turns towards the bedroom, where Kate is still sleeping. The phone booth gave me an amusement for a while, a routine, and then... this. Without the booth, I'd never have met her, and without her I'd still be lost--looking for something, searching, drifting in vain from place to empty place. Now I have something to hold onto, something to actually care about, something to cherish and treasure.  
  
And for that, I am infinitely grateful. To the phone booth, to fate, to the universe, whatever. I'm just thankful she's here, and living, and lying what feels like a heartbeat away.  
  
I turn about to check the clock as I head back towards bed, and Kate. It's about seven in the morning. I have a thousand and one things to do today, and the first of them is to wake up beside my lover.  
  
---  
  
And that is all. :-)  
  
A sequel? If I could be so persuaded, perhaps... 


End file.
